A Painful Reminder
by KrazackLear
Summary: Darius, Trifarix of Might, Hand of Noxus - naught but a man. Swain has a firm grasp on the empire itself - or so he believes - and trusts Darius to perform the vital task of expanding its borders. Once again, he finds himself in foreign lands, crushing towns beneath his boots. But a man can only do what he does for so long... And he's been doing it for longer than memory serves.


AN:

Hello everyone - this is a repost of this chapter because of some random formatting error, as always. Yes, I'm still writing - although not at the speed I used to. I'm considering rewriting my current stories into an original work, so that might slow things down. But enjoy this new story!

* * *

His men were hard pressed here, where the enemy's mages concentrated their power, and their royals fought personally. He had only a hundred men left in reserve, compared to the roughly five thousand that were committed on both sides, just over half of those under his banner. Reinforcements had sent messages ahead, saying they'd arrive in under an hour, and that had been two hours ago, when the battle was fresh. He would have words for Legate Principia, later. And probably a few blades. A cry went up from the enemy army; they'd forced their way through the middle-left ranks, and engaged his archers. These were recruited straight from the heart of Noxus, and did exactly as they had been taught; to retreat, rank by rank, firing a last volley before running towards the nearest support, and once the chasing men were cut off from the bulk as the line reformed, use their light armour to quickly flank and destroy the now-trapped abscess, like the body fighting off a virus.

Their nearest support was a hundred men, spread out three men deep. Trifarian Legionnaires.

Their leader – as, of course, a hundred men three deep left one spare – stood at the front, waiting.

He was Darius, the Hand of Noxus, the Trifarix of Might, conqueror of nations and destroyer of armies.

The enemy's forces – perhaps five hundred men in total – came forward, now with no retreat.

He met them as they came, his archers flowing around the ranks of the Legion, and ruined them.

Their leader came forward, and fell, and then her son, who died, and then they broke.

It was easy. Not just the victory, but the fight itself. When their enemies reared their heads, he struck swiftly and ruthlessly; he had never wanted for a fight. Rebellions, bandits, mercenaries, conquests... He had been on campaign almost non-stop for years now. He was not surprised; being the greatest warrior and leader in the Noxian forces, of course he would be utilised, but... He was starting to grow weary, not for lack of challenge, but for the endless _meatgrinder_ of war. He couldn't name a tenth of the places he had conquered in Noxus' name, and even the satisfaction of a job well done had dwindled to a petty spark. He had never felt the bloodthirst of other men, the thrill of battle. But Noxus still needed him, and retirement was not an attractive prospect to any Noxian warrior. The Wolf would have to hunt him across the world before he'd lie down and die, and Lamb would never get an easy shot on him.

He congratulated his men on their victory as they feasted later that night, the newly taken lands having sworn allegiance. Already his Warmasons, led by Tamara, were building the _noxtoraa_ , the symbolic gateway; built on every road that led to the heart of the empire, it reminded those who stood in its shade just who owned the land they trod. This place had but one road, and it was barely a road at that, leading to the north where it connected to a hub; this was due to the fact that in this godforsaken, frostbitten place, going anywhere else led only to icy fields and snowy fields. Maybe icy, snowy fields.

Sat at his fire were a half-dozen men; his three generals, an Arcanum mage, one lucky, random soldier, and a Freljordian envoy. She had told him her name was Frost, which seemed either a bad joke or fake. The generals were each leaders of their own cultural armies; Polemarchos Demarches, who led the right flank, Spahbod Vyrxa, her commanding the left, and the Prefect Regius, who led the Noxian archers. The mage was one of two he currently commanded – the second a young pyromancer needed to light the fires here – since the rest of the Arcanum were busy and more useful elsewhere. His name was Ladr, cruelly twisted to Lard, which was a suitable name for his torpor and gluttony. But he was a good mage, powerful, and specialised in defensive enchantments which were vital for defending against the True Ice blades of the Freljordians. The random soldier – a Graeki under Demarches – was staring in rapt awe at Darius, who was still imposing and impassive without his armour. His axe rested beside him, glinting in the firelight, snowflakes hissing as they drifted onto the metal.

"Your men fought well. They held under the onslaught, even though they knew they'd been abandoned by your allies." Frost's voice was sharp, but not unkind. She had a noble posture, and regal bearing, and her clothing was fine. Maybe she was a chief's daughter. Her bow was stowed somewhere, unstrung. He hadn't seen her fire it once. She came from what she described as the capital of this tribe, and of the entire Kingdom of the Freljord. The Avarosan tribes Darius now pacified swore fealty to whoever sat on that throne, the same person who had sent Frost to parlay with him.

He hoped she would carry word to the Queen of his exploits, and advice surrender. Alliance. These barbarians were fearsome, even to him; most armies would waver at a quarter dead, but these frostbitten tribesmen would fight to at least half, and even then only retreated out of prudence. He'd seen some forces fight to the last man. It was intriguing. And if he could harness that power for Noxus, then Demacia would be crushed under their steel-shod boots.

"They know that they stand with the victor. They will be remembered." Frost made that little sound that indicated disagreement, but did not vocalise it. Of course, Darius knew that it was possible they would have lost. If he hadn't reconsidered at the last moment to force-march those one hundred Legionnaires up with the rest of his army, who were well-rested, he would have lost. He had wanted to trap the enemy before they could retreat and join with other forces, but they had already done so and ambushed him with twice the number he had expected, and then of course Principia had not arrived. Indeed, she still hadn't. He was beginning to think she'd either betrayed him or been ambushed in turn.

He had lost a tenth of the Legion, and about another quarter otherwise, with Vyrxa suffering the majority of those losses; her countrymen were quick, lightning quick, and vicious, but suited to the open deserts where they came from, with plenty of space to manuever. They suffered in the thick ranks of a defensive formation, but in this icy hell, Darius could not know what lay but a dozen metres into the storm, and could not risk letting them stray too far. Every single man lost today would be remembered. He ensured it. Every single one that enlisted gave a name and next of kin, and the butcher's toll was read by criers in their town of residence, and carved onto the _noxtoraa_.

"Your countrymen fight well, Frost. It is a shame we must prove that Noxus fights better." Her lips purse at that. However she declines to rise to the bait. She does not, it appears, share the temperament of her kin, who would likely draw an axe at such a comment. Or two.

"You do not understand what you say, southerner. Yes, you have beat us here; but this is merely a few towns. There are hundreds. And, of course, we have yet to employ other methods. You will never take the whole of the Freljord by force. It cannot be done, and I know, because I have seen it tried by my Queen." Her words have the ring of truth to them. Of course, he knows they're right; this wasteland would impossible to guard, patrol, and protect. Conquering the whole of it - assuming he even had enough men, between holding off Demacia and peacekeeping their other territories - would take a dozen lifetimes. He sighs, suddenly weary. He stands and excuses himself, then retires to his tent.

* * *

Thankfully, he managed to rest without being attacked again. Principia had not sent word, and there was no way he could continue without her; she commanded a force at least twenty times larger than the one he had now, split between dozens of cultural officers. He had selected the largest two and marched forth, to catch this band. If Principia had been defeated or forced to retreat, there was no chance he would not have to do the same. The next morning, he marched the men back down the packed ice of yesterday, and after less than an hour found Principia. His scouts were ranging as far as they were able, but in this constant blizzard, that was not far at all, and as such they practically stumbled upon her men.

They were camped in a large hollow where some natural rock formation had been built upon by years of snow, forming a tall shield against the elements. In it was his army, camping happily, the pyromancer having built a good number of fires. At a rough estimate, they didn't appear to have suffered any losses, or at least no major ones. Raging silently, he told his men to picket up, then took his commanders to Principia's tent. Frost, he noticed, assumed she could come along with all the aristocratic arrogance she was born with. That lightened his mood a little; she would have made a great Noxian, if only she'd surrendered. He barged into the tent, and Principia – along with the most senior of the commanders he had left with her – turned to face him. He placed his bearded axe onto the table, then took his seat. It was much the same as the others, but with three little divots to represent the Trifarix, of which he was a part.

He did not show anything on his face as the rest of his entourage sat down. Frost chose to stand just behind his chair, where he could not see her. He was not worried of the possibility of her being an assassin; her bow was unstrung, and besides, this room had a dozen of the best fighters in Noxus inside. If she managed to kill him, she deserved to. He started tapping on the table, then grunted.

"Report, Legate." His voice was short, deep, and gruff as always. He had personally promoted Principia to her rank. She was prime Noxian, though that was a coincidence more than anything. She was ranked just below the Trifarian Praetor, their absolute leader, who was third behind Swain and Darius in terms of military experience, skill, and seniority. If somehow Darius was to fall, the Praetor would become the Trifarix of Might. Principia showed a little fear, a little anger.

"We were unable to advance to meet your forces, sir." Darius nods, his rhythm continuing. It's a bad habit of his.

"Why, Legate?" She gestures to something he hadn't noticed before; a large shard of ice, only deep, deep blue, so dark it could be black in the centre. It fills him with a sense of unease just by looking at it. This makes him certain it is magical, of some variety.

"Just as we began to pack up and march, a creature appeared. The only people who got a good look are dead. Frozen to the bone, they shattered with not much force. Like statues. By all accounts, it was some sort of man. It vanished, but as soon as we picked up again, two reappeared. I'm surprised they didn't attack you as you came." Frost steps up to the table and, using a knife, examines the ice. She shivers, and Darius is sure it has nothing to do with the cold. He sighs and stands again.

"Ambassador. You know something about these creatures?" Frost replies without turning.

"I fear that I do, southerner. I am terrified to realize just exactly what this is." Darius considers he should ask just what indeed it is, but luckily a voice beats him to it. It is deeper and gruffer than his, with far more bitter rage in it than he had mustered in a long time.

"And what is that, dear wife of mine?" A man has entered the tent, and now stands beside Frost, also staring down at the lump of ice. Darius blinks a few times.

"How did this man get in here?" He addresses this, incredulously, to the room at large.

"I left my sword outside, didn't I?" His arms are massive. They're as big as his thighs. If this is Frost's husband, Darius is surprised she – strong, but small and regal – can still walk. He has the look of a barbarian warlord about him, and Darius has seen more than enough of them in his life time.

"He's been in camp for a few days, sir. You said diplomatic immunity applies, sir." Principia at least looks angry.

"To forestall this conversation... Dark Ice. Corrupted True Ice. Bad. Very bad. The work of the Ice Witch." There is a series of gasps from around the tent. Darius has heard of her - he had, in fact, had a discussion with Swain about her - but had merely dismissed her as a mage; maybe a powerful and cruel one, but nonetheless a simple witch perverted by the general population's fancies and fears. But ever since coming to the Freljord, he had discovered that the people here were not ones of fancy or fear. They told stories, oh yes, they handed them down generation to generation like prized heirlooms, they had men and women who were designated to regale around the campfire with tales of lore.

But their stories and myths were far too often accurate, and even more likely to be true, so he listened.

The Ice Witch was an old figure, thought if not dead, then dormant. A powerful sorceress who had betrayed her race, the ancient Freljordians, to their evil overlords whom they eventually rebelled against. It is said that even now, she waits for their return, or actively seeks it out, and when it comes she will be at the fore of their brilliant return.

At the least, the Ice Witch will be strong and twisted. At worst, she raises this army of ice monsters and proves how real the legends were.

He does not like any of the options presented to him. He dislikes having no way out.

A hush falls over those present. The huge man walks to embrace his wife. They move away and start a quiet conversation, and Darius stands to address his commanders. His fingers drum, filling the tent with a steady beat.

"I am not scared of the Ice Witch. She is a threat. There are always threats. Vicious beasts, politicians, misguided mages. We will overcome them. They are forgotten. We are made immortal in the memory of Noxus. However, for now, we will not advance. We do not have the magical power to counteract this Witch. Prepare to mobilize. Strength above all."

His followers echo his remark, then file out, all but Principia, who approaches him, eyeing the Dark Ice warily.

"I think we can still advance, sir. These creatures we encountered – they were scared to engage. They were trying to intimidate us. Drive us back. We can investigate, gauge their strength, and maybe that of this Ice Witch, and still conquer the closest villages. Their forces have fled to the nearby city, which while fortified, has maybe a third of our forces. We assault those walls, force them to join us, and we take over the whole region."

Darius considers the point. From there, they would have a staging ground to gather from, retreat to.

"That city would provide a huge strategic advantage, southerner. A way to start the march on the rest of the Freljord." Frost comes over to stand opposite Principia, her husband looming. He crosses his arms – that mere act is a gesture of pure strength. That man would make a grand warleader under his command. Frost, too. He speaks.

"Yes, if your men could take it. But not only are you too weak to do so-"

"We are willing to offer a truce. For now, we cannot say anything of a treaty. But we will offer your men shelter at the walls of Hollow. Food, warmth, and safe travel back to your lands." Darius raises an eyebrow.

"In return for what, woman?" She gestures to the black horror squatting on his table. Ice has spread over the surface.

"You and your forces help us to uncover what is behind this. We deal with it. Then we can talk more." The large man growls, clearly unhappy with the idea of such a truce. Principia scoffs, but does not say anything. Darius opens his mouth to voice denial, but it catches in his throat. How many times had he sat around campfires, in great halls, in haze-filled tents, and heard those same words? Had he been handed peace, and cast it into the flames? Cloying smoke filling his lungs as it all burned. He would fight, and Noxus would rule all. It was inevitable. But did peace have to go up in flames? Did he have to keep his breaths shallow so as not to choke? Did he have to keep all but strength at arm's length?

By the Wolf, he was weary of the death.

"I accept. My men will march immediately. We will take a force ahead, as before, so you may carry the message to your city. Principia, tell the men that no Freljordian is to be harmed without my say so. And if any of those creatures appear, I need to know immediately. They will regret opposing me." Ashe holds out a hand to him.

"Do not split your forces. I will send word ahead. Worry not for our arrival, southerner." Darius nods to Principia, and they all exit the tent. The barbarian's sword is as long as he is. He is impressed, quietly. Frost shrills a short tune, and a bird, made all of glittering, sharp ice dashes from her hands into the air. More magic. He envies it, in some way, but his arm and his axe is all the power he needs. Of course, the petricite hidden in his armour helps.

For a moment, the constant flurry of snow clears. His men, camped but scurrying like ants to move out, bring a fierce pride, and an aching loss. He has commanded so many. He knows a lot of them by sight, if not by name, but he has learnt and forgotten so many over the years. These legions are veterans, tithed to Noxus long ago, earning their place in the strength of blood. He does not know how many he has saved – or killed – with his actions today. But he hopes it matters.

* * *

They get to the city unhindered, or at least, no more hindered than usual in this blasted wasteland. He kept an eye on Frost and her husband - who's name he still had no learned - but they acted as before. His men were on edge, and moral was declining - this frozen landscape, the long trek, the uncertainty that lay in their future. He'd seen it all before. He wanted to inspire them, keep them focused, but it was hard - he barely had any information himself, and he couldn't share it. So it was he and his forces stumbled out of a blizzard and almost broke against the walls of Hollow. Voices called out to them from above, and Frost replied.

The 'walls' were merely a palisade. Wooden. He could have gone straight through them. Doubts begin to whittle at him.

He sends scouts off, knowing they will see little, and do less. In this land, quick movement is a luxury, and a tactical nightmare. His supply lines are already diminished, relying mostly on the Arcanum to deliver his supplies with magic. Luckily food doesn't spoil here, so at least he can stock up for long journeys, and the bitter cold hampers any petty squabbles of his commanders. Trade-offs. Already, most of his men wear coats and pelts looted from the fallen. Adapt or die, in this wasteland, and Noxians do not die so easily.

He takes Principia with him. There are a lot of archers up on that palisade. He keeps his axe by his side, and Principia does the same. Frost and her husband meet with a lot of people on the way, and all of them are clearly chiefs or influential warriors. Darius prays for all he can that he doesn't have to fight his way back out. Especially because he might not be able to. Principia shares worried glances with him the whole way. They arrive at the great hall, and he is not asked to relinquish his weapon. Not that he would have complied.

Inside, they are met with a surprisingly warm, grand sight. Great bone carvings, pelts as big as the walls, lush carpets. He recognizes some distinctly cultural objects - Noxian, Demacian, even a few things from Ionia. Their raiders have travelled far and wide, clearly. Long tables travel across the room, starting at the doors and ending at a smaller, perpendicular one. At this table sits a dozen Freljordians, several of whom he recognizes from their path through the city. Of course, here, 'city' is more of a 'largish town.' Frost goes ahead to the table and sits, nodding at several of those present. Her husband stands behind her, hands on the back of her chair. She leans forward, away from him, Darius notes. He deposits his axe behind his chair, much as Frost did, and sits, sprawling in his black plate. Principia stands behind him, arms crossed, one hand near her weapon. The leaders are mostly female, a majority with what he presumes are husbands or advisors at their side, and only two other men sitting down as he does. They vary wildly, and in a striking moment he is reminded of Noxian councils.

Silence slowly dawns, like the moon slipping over the sun in an eclipse, until they sit totally still, eyeing, like wolves.

Darius' voice cuts through the silence - a growl that slowly thickens into speech. They hang on his every word.

"I am called Darius. I am the leader of the army now camped outside your walls. I invite you all to join me in parley, standing for Noxus. Do you accept?" Frost's voice cuts clear through the murmur that arises, sharp.

"I invited him here. You've all seen his armies. And there is a greater threat, one that he could help us with; the Ice Witch." The murmurs grow to fill the room. Harsh curses and gasps of surprise wash drown out any other noise.

"My wife and I accept your offer of parley." The barbarian's voice smashes the other's. Whereas Frost drew respect and inherent command, his destroys any opposition. It is a fitting voice for the man. A moment passes, then another pair utter the phrase. A woman stands. She is, Darius now notices, wearing a thick pelt of a skirt, a draping sort of headdress, and no tunic. A quick glance around the table shows this is standard behaviour; several others are similarly dressed. Of course, Frost's husband is topless too, but it didn't occur to him that this was normal. He certainly wouldn't go around without as much clothing as possible in this icy hell. His armour already freezes to his underclothes.

"No. You have killed many clansmen. You will kill many more if we let you. I say we cut his throat and throw his head over the walls." Another matriarch gestures at Principia and says something mocking in her tongue. The first chief laughs, joined by a few others. Principia bristles, adjusting her pose to more prominently display her sword.

"Come over here and say that, savage!" Several of the leaders start speaking in their own language, before Frost and her husband calm them. The woman who spoke sat back down, but still clearly voting against the parley.

"I think her concerns are valid, though maybe I can be convinced of his sincerity. You mentioned the Ice Witch. What do you have that makes you think she has returned? And how can this southerner help?" This comes from one of the two men, an old, grizzled wolf with one eye and more scars than skin. Little wonder he is the leader of his village, despite the generally matriarchal stance of leadership in the Freljord. It makes Darius curious about the other male leader, who is young enough to have only recently grown his beard. Frost answers the man, keeping her voice collected.

"The Ice Witch has come back. Her minions attacked us, killing several of Darius' men. Frozen into statues. Her followers have never been this powerful before. We must find out more about her, learn her plans, and stop them. Now, may we parley?" The old man nods, waving his hand. All but two others - leaving a tally of four to eight - vote for parley. Darius examines the opposition - the young man, the topless matriarch, a hawk-like hag with a bright flop of blue-dyed hair, and a rather normal-looking, matronly kind of woman. They all look angry, vicious - apart from the hag. She looks much as Frost does - calm, confident, appraising the goings on with a minor amusement. He immediately marks her down as a threat.

One hand starts drumming a beat. Principia comes up beside him and places the Dark Ice on the surface.

There is no murmur to be curtailed - shocked, scared silence reigns as he surveys their reactions.

Frost shows grim determination. Most others, terror and concern, anger, clenched fists and tight lips.

But the hag - she _smiles_.

In one action, he hoists his axe, runs across the table, and jumps, weapon raised, faster than any can react-

She vanishes in a plume of ice, shards pelting his face and chest, his axe smashing into the floor.

He grimaces down at the rent in the wooden logs. All that is left in the hag's wake is a mocking laugh.

"Who was she?" He asks the question to the room - no one replies. He trudges back to his seat, where Principia hasn't moved an inch. He slumps down again, axe clutched heavily in his hand.

"Tell me where her village is. We march tomorrow. Who will join my forces?" Frost stands, hand smashing on the table.

"I will! We will stop the Ice Witch!" Her husband smiles for the first time to Darius' eyes. But no others join them. Darius stands, staring each leader in the eyes as he speaks.

"I am Darius. I am the Trifarix of Might - and I am your saviour. I bring in my hands our victory, or your defeat. Remember my words today - I came to you in peace, offering truce. You accepted, for we both know the other's strength. I do not want to fight you. So much blood, Noxian and Freljordian, has been spilled on this snow. Let it end. The Ice Witch is a common threat. I will march on her, no matter if you join me. But know this."

He stands, chair scattering to the floor, and throws his axe onto the table. Principia's sabre joins his. Frost comes to stand at his side, throwing her bow onto the pile, youthful face hopeful.

"History only remembers the victors. Stand with Noxus, and be remembered forever."

He gestures to the ice-blasted, ruined floor, then clenches his hand into a fist.

"Stand against us, and you will be crushed and forgotten." The troublesome matriarch throws her weapon in first. He nods to her. The young man, practically trembling, throws a chipped bone-knife forward. Darius nods to him. The others follow, one by one, and he leans on the table to stop himself from collapsing with the relief.

Let the Wolf choke and die. Darius wouldn't let it glut anymore.


End file.
